


blurred photograph

by Eddaic



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Joui War, M/M, PTSD, mature themes, overdue for Sakamoto Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eddaic/pseuds/Eddaic
Summary: "You've always been a pacifist, anyway."





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"You've always been a pacifist, anyway." He spits the word ‘pacifist’ like it was something dirty in his mouth.

Sakamoto chuckles, dry and soft, and takes pleasure in how concern settles into Takasugi's eyes. "Have I? I've been wondering about that." He flexes the fingers of his right hand; the gesture sends needles of pain up his arm. "How come I miss holding a sword?"

Takasugi's mouth opens and closes like a startled goldfish. Oh. Oh, Sakamoto is enjoying this. See how flabbergasted the little midget looks. Sakamoto giggles, because he loves the term 'flabbergasted'; and Takasugi certainly looks both flabbered and gasted. It's such a funny word, its tone so inappropriate for this situation. Situation. Ha. Maybe he's being melodramatic.

He takes pity on Takasugi, who is now looking a trifle worried, and says, "Maybe it's an identity thing. I've swung a sword for so long I can't see myself without one." He knows it's not true, and he knows Takasugi knows it's not true, but Takasugi’s shoulders relax somewhat and they can both pretend it is. Easier that way. For Takasugi, at least.

***

When he was nine he discovered a hollow in an oak at the edge of his school playground. He'd clamber up into the dank space and huddle there with the onigiri his mother had packed for him. Hidden from jeering voices and prying eyes, he'd peer out at the children running about or sitting together and eating. He never joined in, because he didn't have any friends ("I just don't like people, Mom, ahahaha!"). So he sat in that hollow, where he watched, and envied, and stuffed onigiri in his mouth to force down the lump in his throat.

Sakamoto supposes this is similar. Except now he perches on a rooftop with broken tiles and clutches his sword instead of onigiri (as if his hand will heal itself via the knowledge that the sword is right there, needed on the field), and stares at the battleground with an impatience (to fight) and anxiety (for his comrades) that bewilders even himself.

"C'mon," he grits out, glaring at his hand, "heal. You can't stay like this forever. You can't do this to me." And then, with his head bowed and eyes screwed shut, as if all this will disappear if only he doesn't look, "I'm not a cripple. I'm not. I can't be. I  _won't_   _be_."

Up ahead the gunships drift against the sky and blow away two hundred samurai like dandelions. A clean sweep.  

***

The doctor is truthful, which Sakamoto appreciates.

"I'm afraid few people make a full recovery from wounds like this, even with years of physiotherapy and adequate dieting."

"Ahahaha! I guess I'll be one of those few people, then!"

Zura glances at him, and Sakamoto wants to punch him in the mouth for the pity and worryconcernpain in his eyes. Oh, he'd love to beat Zura bloody, just to wipe that expression off his face, just to prove,  _here, see, you can't shove me along with the old geezers and the guys with their legs blasted off, I can still fight._

(At Tosa, he’d wanted to study astrophysics before his schooling was cut short.)

He passes a hand over his face. God, what is  _wrong_  with him? Zura's been nothing but excruciatingly kind to him, right since he stumbled off that rickety boat and puked on Gintoki and Takasugi's faces. But goddamn, Sakamoto is tired of being pleasant and doesn't want to be polite. Why should he be  _pleasant_  when he's been played this card?

He curls in on himself and tries to stop the persistent, childish noise of _it’s unfair it’s unfair it’s unfair_.

***

Sakamoto doesn't cool off, but he does make an effort to be quiet. No one wants to be around a killjoy, after all. He alternates between forcing grins and spending time alone when the difficulty of being nice weighs heavy on his skull.  

They’re at stalemate and he’s lounging beneath a tree, gazing at the clouds, when Takasugi comes tramping into the clearing, an odd, apprehensive expression on his face. Takasugi? Apprehensive? This oughta be good.

Sakamoto smiles without mirth and says, “What’s up, Bakasugi? Don’t you have new recruits to be terrorising?” He needs to work on his tone; that was probably too sharp for someone who’s fine and dandy.

Takasugi, surprisingly, does not respond. His eyes dart around the area, like he’s making sure no one’s there, before saying, “Get up.”

“Why?” Sakamoto has grown mutinous since his injury, like he’s attempting to make up for the agency he lost along with his hand. (It doesn’t hurt much these days, but he’s been forbidden from fighting.)

Takasugi tells him to shut up and do it, and Sakamoto relents, dusting off his kimono. Making a great show of stretching lazily to appear nonchalant, he strolls over to Takasugi, stands too close, and breathes right in his ear, because it’s fun to piss him off.

Takasugi punches the side of his head and mutters, “Ugh,” before reaching into the flap of his jacket.

“Ahaha, what do you have there, Takasugi? I don’t do drugs. Mama raised a good boy.”

Takasugi glowers at him with far less vitriol than usual, and slides his hand out. Sakamoto’s jaw goes slack and all thoughts of pretense (of laughter, of being _okay_ ) vanish.

It’s sleek and black. Stylish, in a way that could suit Sakamoto if he swapped his kimono for a long coat. Doesn’t look too heavy. He can’t decide if he feels hopeful or betrayed or guilty. Till date he’s slept with his sword by his side and he’s already forgetting about it, as if it’s an old toy he no longer wants.

“I procured it from the last town we were in,” says Takasugi.

“ _Procured_ ,” repeats Sakamoto, trying to be mocking but failing because he’s too awed. Takasugi is the only person who can use a word like that without sounding like he choked down a dictionary.

“Use it.”

Sakamoto touches the pistol with cautious fingers. It’s cold and smooth. He is afraid to be excited. “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.”

Sakamoto wants to say,  _Why are you helping me?_ , but guesses the unspoken  _Because we’re friends_  will be too gentle and he’ll start crying, and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Takasugi. (Though he has a hunch it will be easier than crying in front of Gintoki or Zura.) He trails behind Takasugi in the forest, tripping over roots and stones, till they reach an open field. 

Takasugi grips the gun with both hands, cocks it. It’s a slow, deliberate movement, obviously practiced enough times to know the motions, but not enough to execute them with ease or grace. He looks good. Dangerous. Feral in a measured way. Sakamoto wants to pull his head back by the hair, drag his tongue over his throat, his chest.

“It’s a semi-automatic,” Takasugi says. The words tumble strangely from his mouth, foreign and clumsy. “Best if you wear goggles and headphones if you use this. It ejects lead particles.”

“I’ll look like an idiot.”

“You already do.” Takasugi slides back something on the top of the gun with a neat _snick_. “Keep your finger off the trigger till you’ve actually decided to shoot. And for fuck’s sake,  _don’t point the damn thing everywhere._ ”

Sakamoto gives a weak, embarrassed laugh. “That does sound like something I’d do. Not deliberately, but I might kill someone by accident, ahaha.”

Takasugi shakes his head, sighing. He stops and narrows his eyes when Sakamoto blurts, “I want to try it.”

“Eager, are we?” he says, but hands it over. “Let’s load it first. I’ll cover your ears.”

“How romantic,” Sakamoto quips. He receives another whack to the head for that.

***

It’s a sunny day with the bluest sky Sakamoto has ever seen and there is a dull ache coiling in his chest. He had expected they would say their farewells, if it came to something like this.

Gintoki sits slumped outside the medical tent, staring with blank dry eyes at his sheathed sword, balanced on his knees. He gives a brittle smile when he sees Sakamoto.

Sakamoto is confused. “The others have left. Why are you still here?”

“Because you are.”

Sakamoto takes all he owns (a spare kimono, some medicine, a pouch of coins) and dumps it in a sack, before strapping his sword to his waist again, just to take comfort in its weight. He thinks of Tosa. His mother. His sisters. The sea. Graves with swords for gravestones. Astrophysics. Stars and spaceships.

The pistol lies wrapped in a flimsy plaid cloth on his stained futon.

He picks it up. 

_-finis-_


End file.
